I woke up early to make you breakfast.
One soft-boiled egg,
resting on a bed of salad.
Two cherry tomatoes, sliced delicately in half—
made four.
Three palm-sized pancakes,
dripping with sweet maple syrup.
The raspberries and blueberries must lay
perfectly
on top of the brown surface of the pancakes.
Six berries, not four.
Seven twists of Italian herbs over your plate.
Eight tablespoons of love, nothing more.
Otherwise, breakfast would be served too sweet.
On a wooden plate,
only stainless steel.
An oak table,
covered with a red and white checked tablecloth.
There’s lemonade in the jug.
Nine slices.
Isn’t that too much?
I hope it isn’t sour.
The hour on the clock tells me it’s ten.
That’s not right.
I’ll dump it in the trash,
along with the eleven other things
I’ve discarded this week.
It’s the 12th of January.
It’s cold outside.
Where’s your warmth when I need it the most?
Lashvini V.G